We’re not there yet. After dealing us a pair of historic storms that shut down the city for days on end, the weather gods are playing cat-and-mouse with our hopes. Monday was a t-shirt day, the temperature leaping into the 70s while the sun brightened the green of the new grass, warming both our bodies and our hearts. Then Wednesday dawned gloomy, rainy, and cold, followed by a ferocious afternoon wind that almost knocked me off my pins at the train station and scattered blue recycling bins all over people’s yards. And that damnable daylight saving time cost me some sleep that I can’t wait until October to recoup.
But it’s coming. The robins are hopping around the lawn. The mercury is grudgingly working its way up. Buds are appearing, tree pollen is everywhere and don’t my allergies know it, but I don’t care. The f-word (freeze) hasn’t left the forecasters’ vocabulary, but it can’t be too awfully much longer. A new time, a new world, a new season is only days away.
The most welcome sign of all is right in front of us. These daffodils were here before we bought our house and will still be here if we leave, yet every year, without any coaxing or attention, the leaves slowly rise from the earth, with the stalks and blooms close behind.
Mundane and maudlin? Could be. But just a few weeks ago, our days were focused on whether we had enough kerosene to stay warm if the power went out, enough batteries to find our way around in the dark, and boy, I sure hope we don’t lose all that good food in the fridge. Now we’re thinking about opening the pool, hosing off the deck furniture, and in my case, savoring that sublime moment when March Madness segues right into Opening Day. Put me in, coach. I’m ready.
Someone should put in a good word with the ground hog next year. This winter has been a rough one for so many people. I think we deserve a free pass next year.